Gas Station Daze: Part 4: Flat Tire!

Five minutes before closing time on a slow night at the gas station, I sat waiting to shut the lights off, count the money and go home. The last two hours had dragged and all I thought about was crawling into bed and getting a good night's sleep.

Ka-plunk, ka-plunk. What in the world? I glanced around the station and realized the noise was coming from the street. KA-PLUNK, KA-PLUNK. It kept getting louder. I watched as a car eased down the parking lane on the other side of the street. When the car was straight across the street from the station, the man driving looked right at me.

"Oh, hell!" I said out loud. The last thing I wanted was to change a tire. I knew the tire was probably beyond fixing. I watched as the man bounced around like a rag doll as the car plopped up and down, but he kept right on driving. The ka-plunk got quieter and quieter. Soon I didn't hear it at all. "Thank God," I said. I didn't care if he had to drive to Timbuktu to get his tire changed.

Only one more minute and I could shut the lights off and lock the doors. Did I hear something? A very faint ka-plunk? I listen and there it was. Ka-plunk. And it was getting louder! Damn. He was coming back. Could I get the lights shut off before he got there. Thirty seconds. KA-PLUNK, KA-PLUNK. I raced to the back room and threw the switches off, then trotted out to lock the door. It was too late. He sat in his car out by one of the pumps.

I walked out and went to the driver's window.

"Fla-a-at tir-r-re!" the man yelled and tried to point in the direction of the driver's side front tire, but he pointed in all different directions--even at my face. That's all I needed to deal with. A drunk with a flat tire.

Back in those days there wasn't so much emphasis on not driving drunk so the thought of having him park his car and calling a taxi never even crossed my mind. Besides, in those days I thought of taxis as being very expensive and I certainly wasn't going to pay if the man couldn't afford it. On top of all that, I just wanted to go home--not wait around for a taxi to show up.

"I'm closing up," I told the drunk, "so I can't fix your tire."

"Oh?" The man teetered about like one of those wooden hula dolls you see on some car dashes.

"Here's what I'm going to do." I told the driver. "I'm going to take your spare tire out of the trunk along with your jack. I'll jack the car up with your jack, take the flat off, put your spare on, put everything back in the trunk and you can go on your way. So I'll need your key, okay?"

The man pulled his key out of the ignition and we played a bit of hand dancing before I got the ahold of the key. I stepped to the back of the car, popped the trunk open and started unscrewing the wing nut that held the jack and spare tire in place. The next thing I knew, the man was standing next to me. My first thought was he was pretty slick for a drunk.

"What ya do-o-o-o-o-" the man said as he started walking backward as if someone pushed him hard. Plunk! He fell flat on his back on the cement driveway.

I hustled over and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Sure." The man sat up as if nothing had happened.

"I think you better sit in your car while I change your tire," I said as I helped him up and got him into the car. He sat there and quietly pouted like a little boy who had just been scolded.

I jacked the car up, pulled the flat off, put the spare on and got everything back in the trunk--including the flat tire. Then I told the driver it was five dollars for labor. He shoved a twenty in my hand. "I'll get your change," I said.

He waved me off and said, "Keep it."

"Are you sure? Fifteen dollars is a big tip."

"Keep it," he said again. Then his mood changed. I thought he was going to cry. "Where's my hubcap?" he asked. "What are you going to do about my hubcap?"

"I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do. You lost it by driving with a flat."

"You'll look around and see if you can find a new hubcap for me, won't you?"

"I can do that," I said.

Then he drove off surprisingly well for how drunk he was.

A few days later, the man came back. I went out and he asked me to fill it up. He kept looking at me as if he was wondering if I was the guy who changed his tire. But I didn't say a word about it, nor did he. He paid for the gas and left. Even though I saw his car go by the station quite often after that, he never did stop again.

Author's note: I do not condone drunk driving nor do I think it's funny. If this were to happen today, I would call a taxi or the police if he gave me trouble. But this happened during a time when drunk drivers weren't arrested unless there was an accident. I was also a young man and didn't know any better.

Watch for the final installment: Part 5: He Will Never Do That Here, Again!

Have you read Part 3: Read the Sign, Hey?

How about Part 2: Robbed.

Or Part 1: Hot Young Women.